


Games Day

by Daegaer



Category: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
Genre: Aliens, Cousins, Gladiators, Humor, Interplanetary Travel, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 22:23:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5432963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ford and Arthur are in danger of seeing a sporting event from far too close up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Games Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rimedio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rimedio/gifts).



> Many thanks to my beta-reader!

"This is a galactic empire, yes?" Arthur said. He could feel the tension headache building to the point where it was entirely possible his head would simply explode, thus saving the local authorities some time and expense. "Which implies one government? One overarching despotic worlds-spanning government seen as one bloody political unity, yes?"

"Ehhhh, theoretically," Ford said, lazily waving one hand and not bothering to move from his position on the cell's only bed. "There is a galactic police force –"

"Yes," Arthur said icily, "I remember."

" – but you know, some things just work better in theory than in reality. I mean, _your_ little political system was theoretically a whatsit, but really –"

"We really were a democracy, thank you very much," Arthur said. He took a deep, calming breath. He would not get into a political discussion with Ford Bloody Prefect, he told himself. That way lay madness, or at least a desire to obliterate his liver. "So you're saying that your supposedly genuine galactic empire passport isn't any help in the current situation?"

"Seems not."

"So this is it, we're going to die. For bloody not having some work permit we shouldn't even have to sodding well get." 

"On the plus side," Ford said cheerfully, "I've always wanted to go to the gladiatorial games."

He was a little surprised when Arthur tried to strangle him.

* * *

The gladiatorial Games of New Trafford VI are, that wholly remarkable book _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ assures the reader, a must-see event for the discerning traveller. They are, in fact, likely to be unavoidable, for the natives of New Trafford VI somewhat belatedly came to the conclusion that their addiction to the Games was detrimental for the population of the planet as a whole, given that every possible crime, misdemeanor, littering offence and minor social faux pas had become punishable by being condemned to the arena. Instead, the large numbers of tourists who come to witness the Games now regularly discover that they have fallen foul of the labyrinthine local laws, bye-laws, customs and general outright lies of passing recruiters for the arena, and find that their trip finishes with rather more excitement and finality than they had expected. Visitors to New Trafford VI are advised to be very polite, very tidy, and never to be parted from their towel, in case some helpful local inadvertently washes it with dissimilar colours, thus contravening the Slightly Grey Underwear Act, for which the penalty is to be torn asunder by cormorants.

* * *

"Ford," Arthur said, "those people are looking at us very strangely."

"They're looking at you strangely," Ford said, craning around Arthur to admire a particularly attractive girl strolling past. "It's because you're an alien."

"I'm not the bloody alien!" Arthur said, in tones that indicated that this was an argument that he knew he had already lost many times before. "And that man followed us all the way from the café. I thought he was going to die from the excitement of the moment when I dropped my napkin; he did look very disappointed when I picked it up again."

"I'm a civilizing influence on you, Arthur," Ford said in genial self-satisfaction. "You never leave your napkin on the floor these days."

"I never did before."

"And you hardly ever try to pick fleas off your fellow diners during dinner."

"There are times," Arthur said after a chill moment, "when your rudeness makes the family resemblance to your cousin very clear." 

Ford sniggered, and then elbowed Arthur rather sharply in the ribs. "Look at that girl, Arthur! Have you ever seen such enormous –"

"Excuse me, Gentlebeings," a voice came from behind them. "Do you have a license to ogle local young people?"

Arthur and Ford turned to see the man who'd been following them. Arthur felt himself turn a dull, burning red as every incident of misbehavior in his life seemed to catch up with him at once. Ford just grinned in a way that made Arthur wish they were several light years apart.

"Of course I do," Ford said. "I'm a travel writer, and this is my writing aide. He holds my pencils while I sharpen them." 

He kept grinning unblinkingly at the man until the part of Arthur's brain that dimly remembered blazing hot sunshine and wide savannah began to look around uneasily for a nice tall tree to climb. The man, however, just seemed mildly irritated.

"May I see the license please? And your qualification for wielding sharp objects such as freshly sharpened pencils?" 

"Oh! Yes, certainly." Ford rummaged in his satchel and produced a battered leather wallet. Arthur felt vaguely touched, as it was one he had given Ford as a Christmas present the second year they'd known each other. Admittedly it had been a gift he himself had received and hadn't needed, and had just pulled out quickly when Ford came round to complain that all the shops were shut, but it was the thought that counted. Ford looked through the wallet, producing an American Express card (stolen), a Galactic Express card (expired), an Equity card (forged, expired) and, finally, a card identifying him as a researcher for The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and an employee of MegaDodo Publications with a diploma in pencil sharpening.

"You're a long way from Ursa Minor Beta, Gentlebeing Prefect," the man said, seeming horribly upset that this was the one card that was up to date. 

"You can't research distant worlds from the office," Ford said cheerfully. "Or rather, you _can_ , but the bosses are still settling the lawsuits over _that_ little issue. Anyway, you are?"

"Nal Trenlob, Moral Hygiene Patrol," the man said, producing a badge. He looked at them suspiciously and turned away.

"Moral Hygiene Patrol?" Arthur said. "What the bloody hell's that?"

Trenlob glared back at them. "Are you _swearing?_ In _public?_ "

Ford and Arthur shook their heads innocently.

* * * 

Lying to the police, Hitchhikers are advised, is a course of action that - while natural and the obvious response in practically all situations – has certain drawbacks. The researchers of that wholly remarkable book, _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ have determined that on all planets that possess a police force or equivalent, the officers of that force will automatically assume that members of the public lie to them on all matters, at all times. Furthermore, fully 97% of planets with the technological capability to do so will keep track of persons who have lied to the police, even if only by saying, _Nice weather we're having today, Officer._ It is recommended that hitchhikers avoid police attention entirely. The only person who has successfully and consistently lied to police officers on all worlds he has visited is Zaphod Beeblebrox, although this claim may be untrue.

* * *

"I'm not sure I _want_ to see gladiatorial games," Arthur said. "It all seems a bit bloodthirsty."

"Yes?" Ford said, scribbling on the back of the notepad he'd liberated from the café in which they'd had lunch. "That's the _point_ , Arthur. Wild beasts! Naked oiled bodies! Gladiators! Who also have naked oiled bodies! Betting's legal on the outcome, which is unusual in this society. My theory is that it's to do with some sort of sexual repression that is briefly released in the orgiastic violence of socially-sanctioned bloodletting."

"That was your theory about the FA Cup final," Arthur said, frowning.

"Was I wrong? Anyway, the editors cut it out, I can use it again in this article. I'll upload it, then we can go and watch the games in peace."

"Hang on," Arthur said. "You want to send off your article on these games things before you actually see them?"

Ford looked at him with unblinking pity. "Arthur," he said. "I don't want to confuse the readers with too many facts. I've read the sports section of the local free papers, what more do I need?"

"You're a terrible researcher," Arthur muttered. "I don't know why I came with you."

"You'd have died horribly if you hadn't," Ford said with pitiless logic. "And you were already succumbing to my considerable sexual allure."

Arthur opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again. Ford had a point, though he wasn't going to admit which point it was. 

"I just think it'd be more ethical if you watched the games before writing about them," he said. "If you have to write about them at all. You can go without me."

Ford laughed as he wrote. "Ethical? Really, Arthur. Don't be so silly. Now, just let me get this uploaded, and we can have some fun."

"I don't want to hear you wittering on about blood sports and sexual repression," Arthur said peevishly. He yelped as Ford reached over and pulled the babel fish from his ear.

"Problem solved," Ford said, and picked up his notes and recorder. Arthur sulked through the next twenty minutes, listening to Ford speaking in staccato Praxibetel, then yelped again as the fish was unceremoniously shoved back in. "Let's go," Ford said. "I'll just make a reverse charge upload to the office and we can get drunk before the games."

"You really know how to show a fellow a good time," Arthur said sarcastically.

"Thanks," Ford beamed, bouncing towards the door. "Don't dawdle, Arthur! We don't want to be sober for the first set of slaughtered criminals, do we? I'd hate to feel a vague urge to correct a submitted article."

He led the way down to the reception desk and leant across it, smiling at the receptionist in a way that made Arthur feel somewhat nervously jealous. It was bad enough when Ford just _smiled_ at pretty people. It was when they smiled back and started to take him up on the invitations that things got awkward. Well, awkward for Arthur at least. He really wasn't sure Ford had ever understood him when he'd explained about monogamy, not even after the fifteenth explanation. Of course, Arthur reflected, maybe he shouldn't have gone along with Ford's plans the previous fourteen times.

"Hey, baby, I need to send a file to Ursa Minor Beta, and I'm way too cheap to actually spring for a hotel that allows me to do that from my room. Can you help me out? I'd love you to come out to dinner with me and Arthur later, right Arthur?"

"He'd love it," Arthur said, long-sufferingly.

"It'll have to go on your bill, sir," she said. "Like the replenished minibar and the sandwiches and the incessant pornography." She took Ford's recorder. "Address, please."

"Research offices, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, MegaDodo Publications –" Ford started reciting as Arthur tuned out, dreaming of the last cup of tea he had drunk, so long ago. He became aware of his surroundings again when Ford poked him in the ribs. "No more work, time for fun," Ford said. "Off we go."

"Sir," the receptionist said frostily. "That file – was it work related? Only I have noted down that the purposes of your visit are for leisure."

"Yeah, sure, baby," Ford said. "Come on, Arthur, I can tell you're thinking about tea – don't do that in public."

"He's writing an article on your gladiators for his publishers," Arthur said, taken aback as the receptionist's frown deepened. "What an odd girl," he murmured to Ford as they left. He was sure he heard her murmur, _Police, please_ , into the hotel communication system.

"She just doesn't understand good writing," Ford said, off-hand.

Exactly seven minutes later they were arrested for working without a permit, persistently asking a native of New Trafford IV to dinner, and, considering their response to the charges, swearing in public.

* * *

"They can't possibly throw us to the lions for uploading a travel article," Arthur said, for what seemed like the tenth time. He thought about it. No, it was the twelfth time. Ford didn't say anything, just lay on the bunk and kept staring at the ceiling, as if he saw the outline of a secret trapdoor. Arthur looked up again, just in case, but it was still just a ceiling. He'd had a cat once that did the same when it was ignoring him, just sat and stared at nothing. "I mean, can they? Not to the bloody –"

"No, Arthur, of course not," Ford said at last. "There aren't any lions on New Trafford IV. I suppose it'll be one of the native species, like a scarlet flesh-rending mega-crab, or possibly we'll be dissolved in the slime of the fearsome giant Traffordian snail – they're actually rather fast, so get ready to run. Or we may just be forced to fight other condemned criminals to the death. But no lions. I hope that reassures you."

"Ford," Arthur said disconsolately, "this is far too close a look at the gladiatorial Games. I don't want to die like this."

"At least it's interesting," Ford said. "How much weapons training did you get in your education?"

Arthur glared at him. "Not all that much," he said, sarcastically. 

"Pity. Oh well, I suppose we can't expect too much. At least one of us went to a decent school; it was quite a while ago, mind you." Ford sat up and stretched. "It won't be long now, Arthur. You should probably do some warm-up exercises."

"Why? So I can die in a more limber fashion?"

"So that you can run away while I fight the monsters for you," Ford said. "I will expect a very romantic interlude afterwards, possibly silhouetted against one of the full moons." 

"If we actually live through the day," Arthur said, touching his toes, "I'll be happy to help you fill out any missing bits of research on Earth romance you want." 

The door opened and a couple of hefty guards beckoned them.

"Get out here, you degenerates. Time to repay your debt to society."

* * *

Looking up at the baying crowds above him, and the hovering sports channels’ cameras buzzing around him and Ford, Arthur decided yet again that hitchhiking around the galaxy was a really terrible idea. It was bad enough that he and Ford were standing in the centre of an arena on blood-drenched sand, clutching spears and being surveyed by thousands of aliens, but the fact that they'd been stripped naked and doused in oil before being kicked out into the harsh sunlight was really the final insult.

"So this is it – " he moaned as the trumpets swelled, and the far doors began to slowly grind open, revealing a dramatically backlit figure carrying a large mace.

"Dear sweet Zarquon, if you say it again I'll kill you myself." 

Arthur gripped the shaft of his spear tightly and tried to remember his long-ago PE lessons. Somewhere in there, he thought, was a wealth of knowledge about cross-country running, climbing up ropes, team sports in which smaller children were pounded into the ground and other potentially useful information. Nothing about the javelin, though. Beside him, Ford rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, humming something rather discordant and – 

"Ford!" Arthur said, scandalized, "you sang that when those police officers were shooting at us! You said it was a Betelgeusean death anthem! You think we're going to die!"

"Well, yes," Ford said, sounding a little surprised. "I just didn't want to get you down." He shifted his grip on his spear and gave Arthur one of his more insane grins. "They're only sending one guy against us at the moment. Let's rush him."

"And kill him?" Arthur said in horror.

"Baby, I _promised_ you excitement out here," Ford said, and shrieked loudly before sprinting at the approaching figure, brandishing his spear.

Arthur followed out of sheer habit, finding Ford drawing ahead of him with each step. The imposing figure stopped, beginning to laugh loudly – twice as loudly, as Arthur now saw, as most people - and lifting one arm to throw the mace up and away in a mocking arc, and holding out the other two arms. Ford skidded to a halt, then flung his spear down and threw his arms around Zaphod.

"This is all we bloody need," Arthur gasped as he came up. "What are you doing here, Zaphod? And I thought you two were too bloody cool for emotional family reunions anyway?"

Zaphod and Ford stopped hugging and grinning stupidly at each other, immediately adopting three expressions of ennui and world-weariness. 

"Oh, hey, I see you still have the pet," Zaphod said, dodging aside as Arthur tried to stick the spear in him. "Enjoying civilization, apeman?"

"We're in for working without a permit," Ford said as one of the sports channel cameras tried to shove him into a fighting stance. "How about you?"

"Nothing really," Zaphod shrugged. "Some nonsense about outstanding warrants for corruption, stealing spaceships and being an intergalactic smartarse. I really should get around to pardoning myself." He raised all four eyebrows at Arthur who was trying very hard to keep his eyes above waist level. "What, apeman? Don't tell me you've never seen a naked Betelgeusean before, because Ford's right there. And he gave me all the details about the two of you years ago anyway." 

"Ford is not –" Arthur said, faintly, "not built like that." He glared at Ford. "Do you have to tell everyone everything?"

Zaphod looked down at himself and smirked. "Yeah. There's a reason I was twice as popular in school, Ix, right?" Before Ford could do more than start a protest about his name, Zaphod reached over and with one hand grabbed Arthur's spear, while shoving Ford and Arthur out of the way with the other two hands. Arthur stumbled and looked back to see the spear transfix a large and silently approaching snail, its trail of slime dissolving all that it coated. The snail shuddered and keeled over in a revolting pool of slime and ichor.

"He can't actually be _good_ at something!" Arthur said in astonishment. 

"It's not impossible," Ford said, "just really, really improbable."

Reality shivered and wavered around them, the sands of the arena turning briefly to the stage at Milliways before solidifying once more as gleaming white spaceship deck under their feet. It was pristine, spotless and rather cold. 

"Welcome back," Trillian's voice said. "Put some clothes on and don't get oil on anything vital."

"Excitable, aren't they?" Zaphod said, as Arthur kissed the deck and the consoles and the walls and the doors, and giggled in relief.

"You get used to it," Ford said. "Arthur - _Arthur_. We have to find a viewing area so we can be silhouetted against a moon or at least against a stunning starscape."

"Oh God, yes," Arthur said. Kissing the spaceship was all very well, he thought, but it didn't reciprocate.

"Drinks in ten!" Zaphod yelled after them. "Or twenty! Or whenever you finish!"

Arthur was already far too busy to reply.


End file.
